Дэвид Копперфильд

The Beginning of a Longer Journey

           ’TismoreasIbegofhertoforgiveme,forhavingpressedmyaffectionsuponher.Oddtimes,IthinkthatifIhadn’thadherpromisefurtomarryme,sir,shewasthattrustfulofme,inafriendlyway,thatshe’dhavetoldmewhatwasstrugglinginhermind,andwouldhavecounselledwithme,andImighthavesavedher.’

           Ipressedhishand.‘Isthatall?’‘Theer’syetasomethingelse,’hereturned,‘ifIcansayit,Mas’rDavy.’

           Wewalkedon,fartherthanwehadwalkedyet,beforehespokeagain.HewasnotcryingwhenhemadethepausesIshallexpressbylines.Hewasmerelycollectinghimselftospeakveryplainly.

           ‘Ilovedher—andIlovethemem’ryofher—toodeep—tobeabletoleadhertobelieveofmyownselfasI’mahappyman.Icouldonlybehappy—byforgettingofher—andI’mafeerdIcouldn’thardlybearassheshouldbetoldIdonethat.Butifyou,beingsofulloflearning,Mas’rDavy,couldthinkofanythingtosayasmightbringhertobelieveIwasn’tgreatlyhurt:stilllovingofher,andmourningforher:anythingasmightbringhertobelieveasIwasnottiredofmylife,andyetwashopingfurtoseeherwithoutblame,wheerthewickedceasefromtroublingandthewearyareatrest—anythingaswouldeasehersorrowfulmind,andyetnotmakeherthinkasIcouldevermarry,oras‘twaspossiblethatanyonecouldeverbetomewhatshewas—Ishouldaskofyoutosaythat—withmyprayersforher—thatwassodear.

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